


earth angel

by undergrumpcast



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale is huffy as hell, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Crowley is ADHD as hell, Disgustingly slow burn, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Humor (I hope), Like really., Lower Tadfield (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, more tags to be added as this progresses, no beta we discorporate like men, well more like Disgruntled Strangers to Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:48:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22136572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undergrumpcast/pseuds/undergrumpcast
Summary: There is no Great Plan. There is no Armageddon. There are no angels, demons, or Antichrists who try to stop it.There are just two strangers, an old bookshop, and some dusty records.Hell still manages to break loose. In the form of unwanted romance.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 24





	earth angel

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Elliot here. This is my first fic for Good Omens, and I'm very excited about it! It's going to be pretty lengthy by the way things are looking, so be prepared for loooots of pining and an incredibly long slow-burn.  
> Each chapter will have a song that inspired it! To start things off, this chapter's song is Have We Met Before? by Tom Rosenthal, which I highly recommend giving a listen.  
> Hope you enjoy!

It just so happens that old books and vinyl records like the same kind of air: roughly eighteen to twenty-one degrees Celsius with good airflow, forty percent humidity, and absolutely no sunlight. Any change can and will cause mold, warping, or a whole slew of other problems for both formats of media.

Aziraphale Fell (a victim of unfortunate family naming traditions) doesn’t know that about records. He certainly knows it about books, as he _constantly_ fusses over the air quality in the bookshop he runs, but he is oblivious to the proper care of vinyl. The similarity of their upkeep is just an ineffable coincidence — one he can’t quite appreciate quite yet.

One thing he can and _does_ appreciate, however, is his bookshop, A.Z. Fell & Co. It was passed down to him from his grandmother, Amelia Zelda Fell. She practically raised Aziraphale, instilling a love for the written word in him and training him to run the shop when she passed. Aziraphale willingly became the “& Co.” in the bookshop’s title when he came of age.

And then, Amelia Fell _fell_ off a ladder. Aziraphale always told her to let him put books on the higher shelves, but she never listened, the stubborn old woman. In her will, she bequeathed her bookshop to her grandson, naturally — as well as the flat above it, a decent amount of money, and a few personal belongings. Aziraphale was broken up over her death, but a few years of recovery and self-reflection renewed his spirits. He decided to continue running the bookshop in his grandmother’s honor, as a testament to her life and to continue her legacy.

Fifteen years later, A.Z. Fell & Co. is the most profitable antiquarian bookshop in Lower Tadfield (and the _only_ antiquarian bookshop in Lower Tadfield). According to the Tadfield Advertiser, it is a “homey, local treasure that will stay in our hearts forever.” The bookshop’s sentimental value really is the main reason it’s still open. Aziraphale isn’t bad at selling books, necessarily — just not _too many_ books. He keeps his own book collection among the shop’s inventory, and while it _does_ contain literature that is far too old or obscure to catch the average customer’s eye, he still highly discourages anyone who shows a remote interest in purchasing anything actually valuable. It also helps that all of his prized items are kept in a shadowy back corner.

It isn’t an exciting life — but then again, Aziraphale isn’t one for excitement. Excitement means change more often than not, which he isn’t too fond of, either. He likes things to be constant, just like the books that he so diligently looks after. Amelia Fell shared the same stubborn philosophy, and after all, he is trying to preserve her memory.

At least that’s what Aziraphale tells himself.

In his heart of hearts, he is a romantic. It would be hard to spend his whole life wrapped in words without becoming on at one point or another. If, on the occasional long and sleepless night, he really lets himself think about it (which he rarely does, as it only causes trouble), he wouldn’t mind being swept off his feet by some gallant knight and carried off into the sunset. Or maybe they’d just have a nice dinner and some wine, or take a walk around town, or they’d go out for crepes. That would do just fine; he’s a simple man.

But that isn’t what his grandmother would want.

So Aziraphale is… content. He plans on continuing this monotonous existence until he dies alone of old age. Or, as he sometimes worries, until he falls off a ladder.

***

Not many newcomers come to the idyllic village of Tadfield, but when they do, people stare. Especially when that newcomer is dressed in a sharp suit, drives an expensive car, and looks like he has never gotten dirt under his nails in his entire life (and they’re right — he hasn’t). The man breathes in the fresh, slightly muggy air, wondering if it’s going to rain soon and ignoring the weird looks he’s getting from the townsfolk. He looks around at the small shops lining the streets and settles on the one on the corner that’s substantially bigger than the rest, quite like a carnivorous bird searching for its next meal. _Yes, this will do just fine,_ he thinks, _maybe even better than we expected._ Tadfield has charm coming out of every corner, what with its rolling hillsides and homey cottages. It’ll be easy.

The door to the bookshop opens and in he strolls — a proud, immaculate stroll, one that screams _‘I’m important’_ in a nonchalant-but-arrogant way. And he is important, at least in the eyes of the corporate world, and at no point in time does he intend on lessening his value. He comes to A.Z. Fell & Co. on orders from his superiors, and he will follow those orders perfectly, no matter what he has to do.

Aziraphale, the main hindrance to those orders, looks up from the book he’s re-reading with a smile, ready to greet whoever is visiting warmly. But as soon as he identifies the man, his expression turns chilly, along with a creeping feeling of shame and dread in his stomach.

“Gabriel? What an… unexpected surprise.”

“Aziraphale! Good to see you, cousin.”

That isn’t an affectionate nickname. Gabriel is, in fact, Aziraphale’s very wealthy cousin, as well as a member of the international company ALMIGHTY International. No one really knows what ALMIGHTY does or who runs it. It’s a mega-corporation that — along with six or seven others — owns literally everything. Gabriel is a director or a department head or some other crucial position; he isn’t really sure, but he _is_ sure that he does a damn good job. He’s paid handsomely and is talked of quite highly, so that’s really all that counts. His job mostly entails traveling around the world and speaking to (bullying) people on behalf of his company. Everyone seems to listen to him.

Aziraphale hasn’t seen him in years, not since the death of their grandmother. He vaguely recalls Gabriel being in attendance at the reading of her will, but he was nowhere to be seen at the funeral. He cringes at the memory and tries to block it from his mind.

Gabriel looks around the dim bookshop, smoothing out his already pristine suit jacket. “Well, you’ve certainly done… _something_ with the place,” he remarks, noticing that, on the contrary, it looks exactly the same as it had the last time he was here, briefly before the reading of the will. Gabriel clears his throat, turning his gaze back onto his cousin. “Business going good?”

For politeness’s sake, Aziraphale closes his book ( _The House of the Seven Gables,_ a favorite of his) and stands up, hands clasped. “Oh, yes! Business is going _well._ Quite splendidly, actually.” He looks around nervously, wanting to impress his cousin but not exactly telling the truth. “You would think otherwise, what with those e-readers everyone has nowadays, but I think I’ve really reignited the passion for physical copies within the—”

“That’s great,” Gabriel interrupts, checking his phone absently. “How much does this building cost to maintain? Is the electrical up to date? How about the structural soundness?” He walks to one of the walls, leaning down and pressing a manicured hand against it to feel around for an outlet. Finding nothing, he sighs and continues his search around the shop.

Aziraphale follows his cousin with apprehension. “Erm, I’m not familiar with the exact numbers or… anything, really,” he says at length, “but I can go into my study and rifle around; the papers are there somewhere.” Truthfully, he doesn’t know much about the more technical details of the bookshop. His grandmother taught him how to handle the business side of things; other than that he’s kind of clueless, usually hiring outsiders to handle the more financial footwork of running the place. He’s even more clueless as to why Gabriel is barraging him with all these questions in the first place, but decides it’s best not to ask.

At his cousin’s uncertain words, Gabriel straightens, a frown adding unsightly wrinkles to his usually well-aged face. “You can email me them later. I have a FaceTime meeting in half an hour.”

Aziraphale nods in understanding, though he really has no idea what that means. “I see. I don’t have 'e-mail,' but I suppose…”

Gabriel’s mouth forms a hard line. “I’ll just pick them up sometime this week. I’ll be in London for a while.” He glances down to check his phone, and just like that, his perfect white smile is back; though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Well, I gotta go. See you, cuz.” A firm hand claps down on Aziraphale’s shoulder, causing him to lose his footing for a moment. “Get those papers.” Gabriel then heads for the door, far less relaxed than when he arrived.

“Cheerio,” Aziraphale says lamely as the door closes. He feels like a fool; having bumbled around while Gabriel probed him for information, clearly annoyed with his technological incompetence. His afternoon sullied, Aziraphale returns to his desk. He doesn’t like whatever Gabriel is up to, but he _is_ family, and Aziraphale has always placed family above everything else.

Sighing, Aziraphale unlocks the study in the back of the bookshop and starts going through piles of mistakenly unorganized documents, wishing a certain relative would just bugger off.

***

Meanwhile, on the outskirts of London, a man is being kicked out of a record store.

“—come in here trying to tell _my_ employees what’s what, stickin’ your crooked nose in every box, and you don’t even _buy_ anything!” the store’s owner is shouting out the door, waving his arms in anger.

“Do you know who I am? I could—”

“I don’t bloody _care_ who you are! You don’t come ‘round here no more!” And the door slams shut.

The man who was ousted shakes his head, grumbling under his breath as he stalks to his car. “Bunch of wankers. Didn’t have anything good, anyway.”

Crowley is his name (well, his last name), and he has a penchant for collecting outdated audio formats, specifically vinyl records. He’s a modern man, but recently he bought an old jukebox on an impulse and has since discovered the indescribably intimate act of holding the thing he loves most, music, right in his hands.

The jukebox only takes 45rpm records, which Crowley is just fine with. It means he can embrace his natural pickiness and fine-tune his collection with the exact songs he wants. Sadly, that means his collection is rather small, as 45s are a bit more challenging to find than full albums, but that’s half the fun. Crowley adores the hard work — hours spent searching through crates and stacks of records, knees too stiff to stand, back aching, lungs full of dust — all just to find one or two golden nuggets amongst obscure songs that will most likely stay in their stacks forever.

The best places to go record-hunting, Crowley has discovered, are book shops— particularly second-hand ones. The people who run record stores charge out the arse and always seem to get mad at him (though everyone seems to get mad at him, if we’re being honest). Bookshop owners seem to be of a kinder sort, not minding if customers spend time sifting through shelves and being generally non-confrontational. They also sell records at a lower price, blissfully unaware of their value.

Unfortunately, Crowley has exhausted London of all the decent 45s she has. The record store he was just excommunicated from was the last place he hadn’t picked clean, and now he’ll have to wait at least a month before he can check any of the local shops for new stock. He slumps in the driver’s seat, tugging a hand through his hair and staring out the windscreen with a resigned sigh.

After a moment, though, an idea worms itself into his brain and he straightens up, pulling his phone (the newest and best, of course) out of his pocket. Thank heaven for the Internet. He has to scroll for a few minutes and increase the search radius, but Crowley comes up with a few places that look promising. Two bookshops and one record store, each one about half an hour’s drive from where he is now, albeit in different directions. None of them have the best reviews, but he can deal with tricky staff. _As long as they aren’t as awful as the people who work at this shithole,_ he thinks, glancing back at the man still glaring at him from the window of the record store. Feeling the slightest bit optimistic, he plugs the directions for the closest shop into his phone, pops a cassette into his Bentley’s player, and peels out to the whining synthesizer of Gary Numan’s _Cars._

***

The Them usually keep to the outdoors when they gather, but on rainy afternoons such as this when their den in Hogback Wood has succumbed to mud, the local bookshop is a much more viable option. It’s warm (not _too_ warm; Aziraphale makes sure of that) and friendly, with many shelves and aisles to run around and through. Even though they’ve long explored every nook and cranny — save for the Forbidden Study and Aziraphale’s flat above — they always manage to find some old book to discuss that they’ve never read before.

Aziraphale was more than slightly apprehensive the first time the local children visited, but over the years Adam, Pepper, Brian, and Wensleydale have wormed themselves into his heart. He trusts them with his books — a true rarity — because he once gave them a lengthy but stern talking-to when he found a dog-eared page in his original printing of _Twenty-Thousand Leagues Under the Sea._ Since then, the children handle each book with the utmost care, fearing another lecture. Brian, who tends to get some foreign substance on most things he touches, takes extra precautions (and Aziraphale sets out sanitizing wipes just for him) to keep the books in tip-top condition. The others in the gang don’t have to try nearly as hard.

The bell on the front door _jingle-jangles_ and in run the children, stopping in their tracks to wipe their muddy boots and hang up their rain-sodden coats, prompted by a reproachful look from Aziraphale. The warm smile that follows tells them that they aren’t in any real trouble, and each one gives Aziraphale a polite greeting.

“Any new books, Mr. Fell?” Adam asks, lagging behind at Aziraphale’s desk while his friends scurry off to locate literature that will inspire their future hijinks. Summer has drawn to a close, and they need to jam as many adventures as they can into the last warm days.

“Well, most of the books I receive are hardly _new,_ Mr. Young,” Aziraphale replies cheekily. He’s taking a break from searching through documents for Gabriel and is busy pouring rock salt into several large buckets, intending to place them about the shop in order to combat the rising humidity. It’s an old trick his grandmother taught him. “I did pick up a few in London last weekend. I haven’t sorted them, but you’re certainly free to have a look, my dear boy.” He retrieves a box filled to the brim with books from behind the desk and passes it over to Adam, mouth curling up at the look of pure excitement on the boy’s face.

Of all the Them, Adam Young was the first to endear himself to Aziraphale. The boy is curious, intelligent, and exceedingly creative; all qualities that make an equally bright and troublesome child. Adam loves the bookshop almost as much as he loves Tadfield itself— which is to say, exceedingly so. That and his passion for romance novels (the classical genre, not modern romance) reminds Aziraphale of himself as a child, so he’s a bit lax when it comes to Adam. He lets the boy borrow books from him like a library, always making suggestions for the next book every time he returns one. He even lets Adam bring his dog into the shop on occasion, provided that the hound’s paws are clean.

The children stay in the bookshop for a long while, Adam rejoining his gang after deciding that the books from London aren’t to his fancy. Aziraphale expected as much; most of them are biographies. He finishes making the dehumidifying buckets and places them strategically, hoping he’s made enough, since it’s a bit muggier than usual. It’s hard work sometimes, taking care of his books, but it’s good work. It makes Aziraphale feel closer to them and, subsequently, closer to his grandmother. Sometimes he worries if she’d be proud of him. He wonders if all of his efforts are even worth it… but then he sees how much the children enjoy the bookshop, and he recalls the kind words of the Tadfield Advertiser, and remembers the look of wonder when someone walks in for the very first time… and suddenly, his pride is overwhelming. The worry subsides.

Aziraphale watches the rain, a sense of calm coming over him for the first time today. He relishes the moment with closed eyes, then gets up to check on the Them. Once he is assured by Pepper that they are behaving, (“No dog-earing here, Mr. Fell,”) he nips up to his flat to make a mug of cocoa. He needs a bit of a break, and a nice dark chocolate mix should do quite nicely. The flavor goes well with the rain, which seems to have lightened up by the time he returns to his desk.

Halfway through his cocoa, the rain stops pitter-pattering against the windows. The Them, after poring over books full of pirates, sea monsters, and others of that ilk, thank Aziraphale for letting them wait out the drizzle and almost knock each other over trying to get out into the fresh evening air. Aziraphale lets out a contented sigh, leaning back in his armchair. He takes a deep drink from his mug, considering closing early. He still needs to find that paperwork for Gabriel and sort the books from London (which he’s honestly been putting off since he got them; it’s his least favorite part about getting new books), and he has a hunch that it’s going to be quiet for the rest of the day.

His hunch is dead wrong.

The first sign of the incoming chaos is the rumble of an engine. Loud and brash, it roars down the street like thunder. Aziraphale straightens up, eyebrows arched in consternation and curiosity. Tadfield is a generally quiet hamlet, and the cars match the townsfolk: humble, unsuspecting, and soft. This vehicle takes those three qualities and dashes them against the rocks with volatile force.

There’s something else, though, underneath the roar. He can make out… music? Yes, it’s music, growing clearer as the offending vehicle makes itself visible and screeches to a halt directly outside of the shop.

_I’m okay, I’m alright_

_I ain’t gonna face no defeat_

_I just gotta get out of this prison cell_

_One day I’m gonna be free—_

The music cuts off and so does the engine, plunging the bookshop into a jarring silence. Then there’s the sound of a car door opening and closing. Footsteps.

Aziraphale watches as a man walks — no, it is _not_ a walk, it’s a saunter; this man _embodies_ the word ‘saunter.’ Aziraphale watches as this long, lanky man _saunters_ into the shop.

Skin-tight black jeans, sharp black suit jacket — his outfit is mostly black, though pops of scarlet are present as accents. Round sunglasses are perched on his nose and dark auburn hair, buzzed on the right side, cascades in waves to his shoulders. Aziraphale simply stares at him, too bewildered by the sudden (and frankly overdramatic) entrance to say anything.

The man doesn’t even give him a passing glance as he swaggers by. He peers around the shelves, seemingly disinterested in the books surrounding him. He’s searching for something else; Aziraphale can tell. And he’s a little frightened.

Once his legs start working again, Aziraphale follows the stranger, his short steps barely catching up with the lengthy, purposeful strides of the other. Aziraphale is pretty chuffed, what with this intimidating man busting in without a word or any kind of respect; and now he’s barrelling through the shop with the type of body language that sets Aziraphale on edge. “I’m going to have to ask you to stop right where you are, sir. I will not have people barging into my bookshop in a frenzy.”

This makes the man turn on his heel, catching Aziraphale by surprise and causing him to stop as well, much closer to the man than expected.

“Oh you _work_ here?” the man drawls, eyebrows lifting and a smirk spreading across his face as he looms slightly over Aziraphale. “Had no idea; sorry mate.” The nonchalant tone grates on Aziraphale’s nerves, and he opens his mouth to speak, but Crowley seems to just now register the last thing he said. “Wait. I’m— I am not ‘barging,’ and I’m definitely not ‘frenzied.’ I’m just... purposeful.”

Aziraphale gawks at him. “You call _that_ ‘purposeful?’ You looked practically menacing.” He wiggles his shoulders self-consciously.

The man gawks right back. “ _Menacing?_ I don’t— you know what, whatever.” He looks around impatiently once more, urgency coiling throughout his body language. “You got any records here?”

Aziraphale blinks, stunned at the sudden change in topic. “...Records?”

“Yeah. Vinyl records? Y’know... spinny things with music on?” He twirls his fingers around in the air to emphasize his point.

Pure indignation crosses Aziraphale’s face. “Yes, I know what they are, but this is— do you realize that this is a _bookshop,_ Mr…?”

“Crowley. Anthony J. Crowley,” he introduces himself with pride, tilting his head down and leering at Aziraphale over his shades with another smirk, like he expects to spark some kind of recognition.

The only thing that sparks within Aziraphale is shock once he gets a good glimpse at Crowley’s eyes: bright amber, with slits for pupils. They’re quite obviously fake, but Aziraphale hasn’t seen anyone wearing something like that outside of Halloween — and right now, it’s the beginning of September; a bit early to start celebrating, in his opinion. He clears his throat, opting not to comment on it. “Right. Mr. Crowley. This is a bookshop. We sell _books,_ ” he says haughtily, crossing his arms and returning Crowley’s gaze with a rather cavalier glare of his own.

Crowley only raises his eyebrows, smirk growing into an amused but impressed smile. “I wouldn’t have guessed,” he hisses playfully, leaning back and hiding his eyes behind the sunglasses again. “Other bookshops I’ve been to sell records. Plenty others.”

It’s a challenge, and Aziraphale squares up, straightening his already-straight back even more to try and match Crowley’s greater stature. He racks his brain for anything relating to records, and finally remembers the multiple boxes of them in his storage closet. “I assure you that my bookshop is quite unlike the others,” Aziraphale says, venom biting just under his words, “but I do believe that I have a few vinyls upstairs I can fetch, if you would like.”

Crowley just nods, his eyes unrelenting as they stare. Aziraphale can barely see them beneath the glasses, but they’re still there, gleaming in a fiery way that he can’t seem to pull away from. _Intoxicating,_ is the only word he can think, in a bitter but fascinated tone, emphasizing the ‘toxic’ part.

Eventually he manages to look away and rushes past Crowley (with a sassy “excuse me,”) to the door leading up to the flat, quickly heading to the cramped storage closet while chiding himself under his breath.

One of the things his grandmother left him was her collection of 45s. She had boxes and boxes of them, obsessed with keeping them in peak condition. She rarely played them, insisting that they would get scratched, or even that Aziraphale would be ‘tainted’ by the influence of 70’s/80’s music. Even though he knows that was totally ridiculous, Aziraphale still insists on keeping them boxed away out of a certain reverence. Maybe out of fear. He doesn’t like to think about it much.

Aziraphale hesitates as he pulls one of the many boxes out of the closet, running a thumb over the faded “Property of A.Z. Fell” written in permanent marker on the cardboard. Her handwriting was so spindly and small that he can barely read it, even now.

Is he really going to sell them?

 _They were_ hers, _Aziraphale,_ a small voice asserts. Maybe this isn’t a good idea. Aziraphale casts a long look over the rest of the boxes (which fill most of the closet) and takes a deep breath, his grip tightening on the box. Crowley doesn’t deserve this piece of Amelia; doesn’t deserve her prized possessions. Surely he won’t respect them as he should. And yet…

A few records won’t hurt, will they?

Aziraphale has never seen someone this excited over a dusty old box. Crowley practically _squirms_ as he follows Aziraphale to the desk and watches him set it down. After getting a reluctant gesture from the latter that says _‘go ahead,’_ Crowley descends upon the box like a snake striking at its prey.

Aziraphale regards him. There’s a gentle, almost reverent sentiment in the way he handles the records, delicately flipping through each one as if they could break at the slightest touch. It makes Aziraphale rethink his previous assumptions, and he starts to regret his unkind attitude toward him earlier. But there’s something else that’s become unavoidable to notice. Something about Crowley, about his smile, makes Aziraphale think that he knows him, even though he’s certain he’s never met anyone quite like this before. He can’t seem to get this strange familiarity out of his head, as if this stranger is an old friend whose name and origin keeps escaping him.

Aziraphale shifts his weight from one foot to the other, unable to withstand the itch in his mind. “Pardon me for interrupting. This may be far-fetched, but… have we met before?”

The question snaps Crowley out of his hyper-focus. He straightens up, giving Aziraphale a once-over. After a moment he frowns thoughtfully. “Who are you?” Crowley asks bluntly, speculation lacing his words.

“Aziraphale Fell.”

“Come again?”

Aziraphale repeats himself patiently. He’s used to it.

Crowley blinks. “Nah,” he concludes at length, “would’ve remembered a name like that,” and he returns to sifting through the records. Aziraphale can’t help the smile that creeps its way onto his face. He also can’t help how charmed he is.

A silence falls between them, one filled with tension but mingled with unexpected warmth. Aziraphale finds that, once again, he can’t pull himself away. He’s drawn to the way Crowley’s long fingers flick through the records, stopping every so often to pull one that has caught his eye. By the time he finishes, there’s a decent-sized stack beside the box.

“So, how much for this lot?” Crowley asks, stretching his arms like a cat and breaking the trance he has unknowingly put Aziraphale in.

“I haven’t said anything about _selling,_ ” Aziraphale huffs, folding his arms in a mildly childish manner.

Crowley just stares at him again, face crestfallen. It sends something through Aziraphale. A pang of guilt, or maybe sympathy? “Really? I came out here, in the middle of nowhere, just to get shafted again?”

Aziraphale casts his gaze aside, worrying at his lip. “I’m not really sure if I should or not,” he admits in a moment of vulnerability.

“What’s stopping you?”

The question makes him think for a while, brain swimming with excuses and justifications. Eventually Aziraphale registers a hand on his shoulder, pulling him out of his mind for a moment and radiating heat through him from where it contacts. He looks up to find Crowley standing directly in front of him, looking over his glasses and exposing those piercing contacts again. Aziraphale’s throat goes dry and the racing thoughts still.

“...One wouldn’t hurt, I suppose,” he repeats himself, more out of self-reassurance than anything else. “Two pounds.”

The sharp smile is back and the warmth of Crowley’s hand has gone to retrieve his wallet, pulling out the correct number of notes and putting them down on the desk smoothly. “If you do decide to sell the rest, give me a ring. If you’re not busy chasing anyone else away, that is.” He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a business card, holding it out to Aziraphale temptingly.

Just like that, the annoyance is back. Aziraphale yanks the card from him, and their fingers touch. Why is he so aware of that? “I do not _chase,_ ” he chides, but doesn’t have the fire in him to defend himself anymore. Instead, he’s unable to look away as Crowley fingers through the records he pulled, deciding which is the most desirable. Eventually, he slides one from the stack and brandishes it proudly. Aziraphale barely reads the print on the label (“More Than A Feeling;” he doesn’t catch the artist) before Crowley tucks it safely into his jacket.

They ogle each other for a moment, Crowley satisfied and slightly amused, Aziraphale having none of it. Crowley gets the message and slinks toward the door, Aziraphale on his heels muttering under his breath about disrespect and uncouthness.

“Ciao,” Crowley calls as he pushes the door open with a foot and laughs when Aziraphale shouts a reprimand, then gives a little salute before unlocking his car.

The door closes, and Aziraphale is alone once more. He feels like he just sold a part of his soul — and would need very little persuasion to do so again.

Aziraphale’s gaze turns outside to the car as the engine roars to life and, after a moment, is joined by music. They both fade as Crowley drives away, leaving Aziraphale both awfully empty and, though he’s extremely reluctant to admit it, _delightfully_ full.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll update as I complete future chapters (I just finished chapter three, so when chapter four is done I'll be posting chapter two) so hopefully there won't be too much of a gap between updates. Though things may slow down once the semester starts, as I am a full-time college student who is also working on another Good Omens fic event *eyes emoji*


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